Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
“Even with no teeth, I’d still be prettier than her. Fuck, dude.”
“Don’t ‘dude’ me,” Rage warns.
Holding his hand in the air, Pretty Boy sniggers to himself before getting his phone out and taking a picture of her.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“PB,” he barks just as a ping sounds from Rage's pocket.
“You little asshole,” Rage roars, looking at the group the photo has been shared to with the message: RAGE SAID HE WOULD.
Leaning across the small divide into the back, Rage jabs at PB’s leg.
“Ow, enough. I’ll delete it,” the boy hollers.
“The woman’s a cunt but she’s Ruby’s mother,” I tell them, not liking the idea of Ruby seeing that text.
“Jameson will have to get in line to kill you if you upset those girls,” Rage informs him.
“You care about them?” I state.
He jerks his head my way, lines crinkling his eyes. “I’ve watched Jameson raise them from pups. I’d kill for them.”
She has an army of brothers ready to kill for her yet she didn’t want to go to them.
“We’ve got a lot of shit happening with the club, brother. We thought you were dead.”
“Thought or hoped?” I raise a brow.
“Why the fuck would we want you dead?” He looks offended.
“You tell me. You gave me the job that got some Mafia asshole cutting holes into me,” I grit out, holding open the flaps of the shirt.
“What job?” Frown lines crease his forehead. If he’s full of shit, he’s good at acting. I like to think I can read people, and all I’m getting from him is genuine confusion.
“The one I collected from Hellmade,” I growl, turning to look to PB.
“He’s right. I was the one who gave him the envelope you dropped off,” PB cuts in.
Shaking his head, his lips tugging up the side of his face, he says, “That was for you to cause a little pandemonium for a contractor who was getting too cocky. We wanted to use him as an example for his successor. He didn’t have anything to do with the mafia.”
His eyes flit from me to the road.
“Maybe he was so cocky because he had ties to the mafia,” I surmise.
“No way. We have everyone who works for us vetted. You know that. He was nobody,” he assures me, scratching at the stubble on his cheek.
“Well, somebody didn’t think so.”
“Maybe it’s someone else. A different job,” PB offers.
“I remember them all. It was that one. The name was Fallaci.”
We drive up to the clubhouse, the gates opening for Jameson’s truck pulling in ahead of ours.
“No. The contract I gave you was for a Derek Adams.” Rage peers back and forth between PB and me before his eyes land on mine.
“Someone switched the files,” we say in unison, our gaze shifting to the pretty fucker in the back.
Holding up his hands, he shakes his head vehemently. “Wasn’t me. I just do as I’m told. I put the envelope under the desk and went about business as usual until he came in for it.”
“Who else was there that day?” Rage demands.
“Jameson, for one,” I grunt.
“Never. He’s loyal to a fault. He would never turn on his brothers—on me.” Rage leaves no room for argument.
“Lily was there,” PB announces.
“She would have no reason or motive to do something like that.” Rage shakes his head.
“Idiot was there,” I say, remembering him working the shop floor.
A scoff comes from the back seat. “He wouldn’t have the brain cells to pull off switching documents up. How would he even have them, and why?”
“The question is why would someone do this, and to what end?” Rage ponders, pulling the truck to a stop next to the clubhouse entrance.
I’m pissed I got cut up because someone played us. “To start a war,” I growl.
“Or to have help with one,” Rage states, a light dinging in his head. “Aim a target at us by setting you up to kill one of theirs. Get someone else to take us out and come in to take over our territory once the dirty work is done.” He smashes his hand down on the steering wheel. “Motherfuckers.”
“They only targeted me, though,” I remind him.
“No, they haven’t. We’ve got brothers dropping like flies. That’s why Jameson was looking for his sister. We’re closing ranks.”
“I got a text to meet a brother at a bar. Only the club has that number. It had to come from someone within.”
PB cusses as knuckles rap on the window, Jameson pointing to the club door.
“We think we have a rat exposing brothers when they’re most vulnerable, alone. We lost six brothers yesterday,” Rage informs me.
My gut tenses. My demons stir under the surface, wanting blood. “So, what’s the plan?” PB asks.
Carnage is the plan. They all fucking die.
“We go to war,” I declare. Opening the car door, I follow my brothers into our club.